


Lost

by L_autore_Passionale



Series: Batfam Week 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Batfam Week 2020, Batfamily (DCU), Gen, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, POV Dick Grayson, hurt little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23016082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_autore_Passionale/pseuds/L_autore_Passionale
Summary: His lips lifted in a snarl as the blurred figures stepped closer. He shifted to keep them all in sight, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet as he crouched protectively in front of the three he loved with his whole being. The three he would die to protect; the three he had bled and been bruised and hurt for.Shame that, despite his efforts, he hadn’t been successful in keeping them safe and whole.
Series: Batfam Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654126
Comments: 4
Kudos: 189
Collections: Fan Fiction Addiction, Tales from the Cave





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for Batfam Week, Day 1: Overprotectiveness

His lips lifted in a snarl as the blurred figures stepped closer. He shifted to keep them all in sight, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet as he crouched protectively in front of _them. Them:_ the three he loved with his whole being, the three he would die to protect, the three he had bled and been bruised and _hurt_ for. 

The three he had not been able to keep safe from their own bleeding and bruising and hurting. His fault; his failure. He’d tried his best, but there were too many _others. Others:_ the ones who hurt and hurt and _hurt them._ The ones who laughed when they screamed and mocked when they cried. The ones who had captured them and brought them here, to this dirty, dingy place where hope was gone and all that was left was…. They had only each other. 

They were _them_. He and his three. Only he remained standing, weak as he was, but he would _not let the others close._ Whatever breath was left in his body he would give to keep _them_ safe a little longer, to let _them_ be. 

Noise reached his ears, words he didn’t understand. He growled when the figures drew even closer, primal satisfaction filling him when he made them falter a little. 

_“Mine,”_ he said with his posture, with his snarl. Once he would have used words, but there was no place for those here. He didn’t remember how to shape them in a mouth that had done little more than scream horror and pain or croon soft noises of comfort to his. To his _them._

The _others_ moved forward again, and his throat ripped with his warning cry. Turning to face the one coming closest, his ankle—broken and abused—faltered, and he fell to a knee. _No._ He would not fail. He could not fail. Not _them._ He would not let the _others_ touch _them._

More words, more sounds he didn’t pay attention to. He watched only the way they moved, how one knelt in front of him, a safe distance away. How three _others_ spread out around the room. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but all he saw was shadow, especially for the _other_ that was closest to him.

More _words,_ again, and why, why was the figure still talking? He would not move aside. But he had and would go willingly with them if they left his _them_ alone. He didn’t care what was done to him, so long as they were safe. But he knew, he could tell, the _others_ wanted all of them. 

Something pricked his neck, and he startled, hand slapping against the pain. It was something small, something sharp. He wavered on his knees and knew, he _knew what it was._ He wouldn’t be able to fight back. They were going to take him and his _them._ The _others_ had done this so many times in the beginning, either making them tired and sleepy to capture them, or keep him from protecting _them,_ or even…even making heart-pounding fear tear through their bodies. 

They’d attacked his first, then his second, then his smallest—his third—and nothing he did or said made the fear go away. Not until they got poked again. And then it had been his turn.

He didn't _want_ more sharp sticks and nausea and tiredness and pain and _fear_.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dickie. It’s going to be okay. I promise, son. I promise.” 

The words washed over him as he felt his body slowly grow limp. Dark spots covered his vision as he considered the words, spoken gently and carefully, for all he didn’t understand them. It was different from the other _others._

His smallest made a soft noise of protest, and he shuddered and pulled away from the arms that were wrapping around him to trap him. He needed…. Whatever he’d been given was unforgiving, stealing strength from his arms and legs; stealing his sight; stealing his ability to help. But still, he tried, one trembling arm reaching out for his smallest.

And then...and then….

His arm fell limply to the floor. He was already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of weird, I know. I hope it wasn't too confusing. The prompt for the last day of Batfam Week is "Nightmares," and it digs into this story a little more. 
> 
> ...  
> I received such a beautiful, warm welcome to this fandom with my last story. Please know I hold your wonderful responses close to my heart and still smile at every single one.


End file.
